Vengeance
by Mitslits
Summary: Sherlock and John have been separated. But there will be vengeance.


The headlines screamed at him as he walked past the newspaper stands, hands buried deep in his pockets and head down, trying to avoid reading them. But the black ink had hooked its claws in him and he stared straight at the newspapers.

**Fake Genius Commits Suicide **screamed one. **Super-Detective Revealed as Fraud** proclaimed another.

John Watson scowled at them and trudged on through the slight drizzle. He turned his key in the lock at 221B Baker Street and entered the empty flat, sighing as he unwound the scarf he had taken to wearing and hung up his coat on the peg. Something tumbled out of its pocket and as John bent to pick it up he heard a knock on the door.

His eyebrows drew together and he opened it, unable to hold back a sigh of disappointment when he saw Mrs. Hudson standing there. "Oh, hello, Mrs. Hudson." John opened the door wider and stepped back slightly. "Come in."

As the caretaker entered the room, he found that it was only a bit of money that had fallen out of his pocket and he stuffed it back in the coat. "Would you like a cup of tea?" he asked, heading towards the kitchen to make himself one.

"That would be lovely, John, but I'm afraid I've only come to collect the rent", Mrs. Hudson said, giving him a small, sad smile.

John hesitated, turning to face her. "Ah, yes, the rent. Do you... do you think you could give me a bit of an extension on that?" He waited, staring at the floor, for her answer.

Mrs. Hudson sighed, crossing her arms. "That's the third time you've asked for an extension. I'm not sure I can allow another." She walked over to the grieving doctor and placed her hand on his shoulder, looking into his eyes. "John. I know you miss him, but we've all had to let go. It's time you do the same."

'Do the same?' John thought. 'Let go of Sherlock? That cunning mind? That perfect smile? That brilliant detective? Who would ever want to let him go?' He closed his eyes tightly. "Just... at least give me until it gets out of the papers. Please." His eyes opened once more, begging her silently.

After a moment of silence, Mrs. Hudson finally nodded. "Alright. But not a second more", she conceded. With one last sympathetic glance, she exited the apartment, closing the door solidly behind her.

John went back to the kitchen filling the kettle with water and setting it on the stove to boil. "Sherlock, would you-?" He caught himself. Lately, John had been talking to the detective a lot, forgetting that he was gone forever. It had only been two weeks since he had received that fateful phone call, but he knew he should have accepted it by now. He just couldn't believe that Sherlock didn't have one last miracle in him. All he had to do was wait. John sat with the mug of tea placed safely on the coffee table as he opened up his laptop and went to his blog. He sat for a while, sipping the tea, trying in vain to come up with a suitable topic to write about. Eventually, when he was down to the last bit of tea, he gave up, closing the laptop and leaning back against the couch cushions. His eyes closed. _"__I'm a fake. The newspapers were right all along..." _Sherlock's voice rang in his 's eyes snapped open. "You are _not_ a _fake_!" he shouted, hurling his mug at the wall. It shattered into pieces that fell to the floor like rain as John realized what he'd done. "Oh bloody hell", he muttered, heaving himself up and picking up the wastebasket. He began to collect the broken ceramic, muttering all the while to himself about how much of an idiot he was. Somewhere along the line that turned into how much of an idiot Sherlock had been. "You weren't a fake, you were never a fake", he told himself. "Moriarty was real. For God's sake, Sherlock, the man strapped a bomb to my chest! You're telling me all that was a bloody act! Oh, no, no, I don't believe it for a second- ouch!" This last was because a particularly sharp corner had grazed his palm, drawing out a line of blood. As the red liquid slowly trickled down his palm, he couldn't help but remember the blood that had streamed down Sherlock's face as he lay there on the cold concrete, stone dead. Dropping the bit of the mug, John pressed his hands to his eyes and felt tears welling up. They spilled over and dripped slowly down his cheeks as her buried his face in his hands whispering, "Sherlock", over and over.

Sherlock pulled the cap down low over his eyes, trying to cover his face as much as possible. His jacket was zipped up all the way and was wearing denim jeans as he rang the doorbell to 221B Baker Street. "Hello." He greeted the woman who answered the door, pitching his voice upwards so as to disguise it. "I'm sorry; do I know you?" Mrs. Hudson asked, opening the door only slightly. Sherlock shook his head. "No, I'm afraid you don't. I'm a... an old friend of John Watson. He lives here, doesn't he?" Mrs. Hudson smiled politely. "Oh, yes, he does. Why don't I just tell him you're here?" She turned to go up the stairs, but Sherlock placed a hand gently on her arm, restraining her. "No, that's quite alright. We had a bit of a falling out years ago, and I'm not sure if he'd be pleased to see me", he lied smoothly. "I'm here because I heard that one of his friends recently passed away. Sherlock, I think it was? I just... well, I wanted to make sure he was alright." Sherlock cleared his throat as his voice began to tremble with emotion. Smiling, Mrs. Hudson ushered him farther in, closing the door behind him. She glanced up the stairs, making sure that John's door was shut tight. "To be honest with you, Mr..." "Benedict. Call me Benedict", Sherlock said. "Mr. Benedict, I'm not sure if he is all right. He's been behind with the rent, and consumed with grief these past few weeks. The two were very close, and it's been quite hard on him", she confessed. Sherlock reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a few notes. Pressing them into the landlady's hand, he smiled. "This should be enough for the rent for a couple of months", he assured. Mrs. Hudson's eyes widened in surprise. "I'm sure he'll want to thank you for this himself", she stammered. "Let me go get him for you, please." Once again, Sherlock shook his head. "I would much rather keep this little exchange private, if that's quite all right with you." He waited anxiously for her answer. He knew that if she told John about his visit, it could raise his hopes. Reluctantly, Mrs. Hudson nodded in agreement. "Well, if you say so." "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I'll just be off now." Sherlock turned and let himself out, leaving a very puzzled Mrs. Hudson to figure out just how this stranger knew her name.

The next morning, John awoke to another knock at his door. He got up off the couch where he had been sleeping fully clothed and shuffled over to the door, swinging it open. "Oh, hello, Mrs. Hudson", he mumbled sleepily. "What do you want so early?" "It's ten in the morning, John", Mrs. Hudson said lightly, looking at him with concern. Blinking slowly, John stared at the clock on the wall opposite them. "So it is. What did you say you were here for?" he repeated. Mrs. Hudson arched her eyebrows. "I didn't say. But I will now. You can forget about the rent for the next couple of months. It's already paid for", she informed him. That jolted John awake. "Excuse me? Who paid for it?" "That's for me to know, and you to never find out", Mrs. Hudson quipped, departing before he could say another word. John retreated back to the couch, brow furrowed with curiosity. "Now who could have... Sherlock." As soon as he said the name, he was convinced that it was him. No one else could have known how close the two were. No one else would have paid for him. No. It had to be Sherlock. He didn't care what the papers said, didn't care that he had seen his body and his grave with his own two eyes. Somehow, some way, Sherlock was still alive and walking this earth. And the only way John could think of to see him again was to draw him out. But how?

Sherlock, for the first time in his life, was doubting himself. Was letting John go really the best thing to do? Should he have told him that he was, in fact, still alive and well? He dismissed the thought almost as soon as it occurred. He refused to drag John Watson into any more trouble than he already had. And, he had to admit, it was also to save himself. The feeling of absolute terror that had gripped his heart every time John was in danger was illogical, irrational, but still it happened again and again. He couldn't go through that anymore. As if his thoughts had summoned John, his mobile vibrated and a text from him popped up. Cursing himself for not disconnecting the number purely out of sentimentality, he almost deleted the text. The subject line caught his eye. It read simply: **I know**. "Preposterous", Sherlock told himself. "How could he possibly know?" The answer was simple. He couldn't. In spite of himself, he pressed the button to open the text. **Sherlock, you bloody bastard, I swear to God I'm going to kill you. You've left me in this flat all by myself, thinking you were dead. Where the hell are you? **Before he could be tempted to reply, Sherlock erased the text, sighing. "I'm sorry, John", he said to thin air. "It's better this way."

John waited in vain for a reply. He sent texts daily, begging, ordering, asking Sherlock to tell him where he was. Thoughts began to trickle into his mind unbidden, and unwanted. 'What if it wasn't really him? What if you're just fooling yourself?' Days turned into weeks, turned into months, and yet John still received no reply. Over time, his doubt grew stronger until he decided to make one last ditch attempt at contact. He dialed Sherlock's number and placed the phone up to his ear. "Come on, Sherlock, pick up. I know you're there", he whispered as the mobile continued to ring. The answering machine picked up his call and he cursed. "Sherlock? Sherlock, do you hear me? Answer me! Please... Fine. I just... I just wanted you to know that no matter what you've done I still care about you, Sherlock. I know, I _know _you're innocent and I will never believe otherwise. You may have the rest of the world fooled, but not me. And do you know why? It's because", he drew a deep breath, "it's because-" The machine beeped, cutting him off. The phone fell from John's hand to the floor.

Sherlock tugged his ringing mobile from his pocket, wincing when he saw it was John. Though he knew he shouldn't, he waited until it stopped ringing and chose to open the voice-mail. He put the phone up to his ear. _"__Sherlock? Sherlock, do you hear me?..." _"Yes, John", he said, "I hear you." _"__Answer me! Please..." _"I'm sorry. I can't." _"__Fine. I just... I just wanted you to know that no matter what you've done I still care about you, Sherlock."_ "And I still care for you, John." _"__I know, I _know_you're innocent and I will never believe otherwise. You may have the rest of the world fooled, but not me." _"I know you never doubted for a second." _"__And do you know why?" _"No, I... I can't even imagine-" _"__It's because- it's because-" _The phone signaled the voice-mail was over and Sherlock glared at it as he snapped it shut. He sat down on a nearby bench, flipping his collar up to shield him from the sudden wind that had sprung up.

John dropped his head in his hands as he tried to imagine the rest of the days ahead of him without Sherlock. Waking up every day with the realization that his friend would never again drag him on another hare-brained scheme to catch a criminal. He would never again rattle on and on about his deductions and observations. John tugged on his coat and wound his scarf around his neck, plugging an address into the GPS on his phone. He followed its directions until he was standing right where he had stood before, looking up to that hospital roof. But this time, Sherlock was not staring down at him. The roof was empty. But not for long. John crossed the street quickly, entering the hospital and the elevator. He pressed the button for the roof and the doors slid closed with a quiet ding. He folded his hands in front of him and waited. When the elevator stopped, he exited and went to stand on the roof, looking around for any evidence that might give away what had happened to Sherlock. It was not long before he found a bloodstain near the middle of the roof. His eyes narrowed and he bent down, wondering whose blood it could possibly be. Straightening up, John went to stand at the very edge, right where Sherlock had stood. He glanced down, but there was no evidence of a fall on the street below. He turned back, eyes immediately drawn to the stain. John pulled out his phone, tying out a quick text to both Sherlock and Lestrade.

Sherlock glanced down at his buzzing mobile. Another text from John. He opened it and his eyes went wide with terror, blood draining out of his face. Without another thought he burst into action, sprinting straight for the hospital.

"I knew it wouldn't take you long to come up here", a voice spoke from behind Watson. John turned around slowly, facing an enemy he never thought he would see again. "Moriarty. What did you do to Sherlock?" Moriarty looked hurt. "What did I do? John, come now. He admitted it to you, didn't he? It was all an act. I'm just as fake as he is", he sneered. "No, that's not true", John protested, glaring at him. "I will never believe that." Moriarty sauntered up to the edge of the roof himself, glancing sideways at John. "I wonder... how it felt. Standing up here, telling his only friend in the world goodbye. And I wonder how you felt, John. Watching. Him. _Die._" With each word, he had stepped progressively closer until, with the last, he simply placed his hand on John's back and shoved.

Time seemed to slow down as Sherlock watched John tumble from the roof. He rushed forwards, unable to peel his eyes away as he hit the ground with an audible snap. "John!" he shouted, finally reaching his side and kneeling down beside him. He longed to cradle his friend's head in his lap, but he didn't want to risk moving him at all. A crowd had gathered and all eyes were fixed on the pair, but Sherlock didn't care. He grabbed John's hand in his, tears slipping down his face and dripping down onto John's hand and face. John's eyes fluttered open, blood running from his mouth, nose, and ears. "Sherlock?" he asked, barely able to manage a whisper. "You've come for me?" "Yes, John", Sherlock said, trying to keep his voice steady. "I'm here. And I'm so so sorry, John. Who did this to you? Who made you jump?" But it was too late. His eyes had glazed over and his hand went slack in Sherlock's. The police had arrived and the detective stepped back, wiping his hand over his eyes. He glanced up at the roof that had caused both of them so much pain. He was unable to spot anyone, yet he knew, without a doubt, that John was not the type to commit suicide.

The police wanted a witness statement from him, but he proved unable to help them. He swore up and down that John had been pushed, though the police insisted that he appeared to have jumped, based on the position of his landing. Sherlock would not accept that. He refused to believe that John had not been murdered. He returned to the flat and closed his eyes as memories of him and John flooded his mind. When his eyes opened again they were filled with a cold hatred and burning passion that proved he would do anything for vengeance.


End file.
